


The Myth

by TheTravelerWrites



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTravelerWrites/pseuds/TheTravelerWrites
Summary: This is an older work that I've been putzing around with for YEARS, but I put it aside when I hit a wall. I'm going to start posting chapters and hope it will help me get past the block.Set in a fantasy world where humans are non-existent and are thought to be fairy tales. It's more an adventure story, but there will be romantic elements further into it.





	1. Chapter 1

The road is always longer before the second bottle of gin, and here Archer was without the first one. The mid-afternoon heat and dust drifting lazily in the air, creating a fog of microscopic, throat-shredding shards of glass, was not helpful in any way either. The rust colored sand that enclosed the small strip of tan road he followed stretched beyond his line of vision, though he knew with certainty he was on the right track. Getting to this city would almost be more trouble that it was worth if it were not for what Archer dragged behind him in a large canvas potato sack that was twitching slightly, and the big, fat payoff he’d receive once he reached the city.

In a moment of reminiscence, or perhaps delirium, Archer’s mind wandered back to the conversation he’d hand earlier with the man who had helped him retrieve his merchandise, Aman. He’d only met him the night before in a pub, when he’d drunkenly promised Archer something valuable, something he couldn’t pass up. He'd almost declined, but the pull of money can be pretty powerful, even if the means of attaining it are slim. Working with Aman, though, wore annoyingly on Archer's sense of sportsmanship, and Archer decided all of the bounty was better than half.

He’d seen the look on Aman’s face when he spoke to him. A half-glance at Archer’s mangled left ear, a mirthless smirk, a sniff of impatience, haggling the price the items with an air of wanting to get rid of Archer as soon as time would allow. Archer knew. He didn’t have to ask, but he knew. Very few people had the patience to deal with a disgraced elf. It took two bottles of his reserve booze, but it was all too easy to get Aman stone cold drunk enough not to notice Archer sidling out of camp with the goods. It felt good to know he was still as spectre-like as he had been back when he was a legitimate filibuster, although the term _spectre-like_ made him grimace.

Sniffing, he stopped and looked up at the purpling sky. The sun was fading fast, which was good news to him. It meant it would get much cooler, thus making the trip to the city less harsh, though little could be done about his thirst until he actually reached town. He caught himself daydreaming about an oasis in the desert floor with a whiskey waterfall. He had been so caught up in it that he’d actually wandered a bit off the road. A whine from the sack he dragged brought him back to his senses. He looked up, cursing. He kicked the sack, which fell quiet instantly, and ambled back to the road, again heading east.

As twilight wore on, he began to realize it would be well after midnight before he actually reached town, and that the gates of the wall that surround the perimeter of the city would have been shut for the night. This left him with two options. He could camp out in front of the gate and wait for dawn to break before continuing into the city or, which was the more likely of the two choices, scale the wall and hope he didn’t run in to any guards on the way down. Besides, it’s kind of hard to smuggle illegal goods into the city if a guard is checking all luggage, which is common.

Several uneventful hours later, unless you count the few times Archer kicked at the sack when the noises inside grew too loud, he saw a speck of darkness against the darker night sky that he knew must be the Bethos, the village that reached out around the wall leading into Ardenthos. The city itself belonged to a self-styled prince, Lord Arden; a spineless worm if Archer ever saw one. Archer rarely ever conducted business there if he could help it, unless he was too far from another city, or was running from the law, or he was hungry and strapped for cash. At the moment, Archer found himself in the _all of the above_ category.

The thought of Arden brought a bitter taste to his mouth. The so-called “lord” had once hired Archer to eliminate a rival, who, at the time, was the Realm King’s favorite and would have been given the city, as well as a vast fortune for the upkeep of the city. Archer could see Arden’s point in wanting to overtake his rival; who wants to visit a city called Lurendezelhoften? After completion of the job, the Lord decided that rather than pay Archer the amount he was owed, he would accuse him of the murder and execute him. Archer got away by the skin of his teeth, and learned two very important lessons: One, never trust nobility, and two, cash up front.

The city walls loomed closer, and Archer could now make out the massive flags with Arden’s crest on it: Two crowned serpents circling an ornate gold and ruby orb. Ostentation and expensive, those were. Arden spared no expense when it came to himself. His subjects weren’t near so lucky. Arden was good at keeping up appearances. He spent just enough to make it look like he was keeping the city up to some sort of standard. From the outside, this city looked like paradise. But then, ask some of the residents how they like their utopia.

Just as he reached the top of the last dune, he saw a caravan camped outside the gates. What luck! The guards couldn’t possibly search this many people. All he had to do was throw a coin or two at the right people and he could sneak past the guards dressed as one of the nomads, easy as pie. Nomads weren’t exactly the most open, welcoming bunch, but everybody likes money.

Most of the thirty-odd people were sleeping, but Archer made out a fire where three medium sized men sat. Night guards, likely. Nomads did not make anything, really; they made their livings simply by buying, selling, or transporting. Glorified couriers, really, but they made good coin, as far as Archer’s memory recalled.

As he approached, the three men stood, hands going immediately to their belts. They were stocky and solidly built, no doubt born and bred to be security for this particular tribe of wandering folk.

“Hail,” Archer called to them. “The wind from the east is sweet and fragrant.”

The three men hesitated, staring at each other in confusion. Archer had just recited the traditional greeting of the Forgen Nomad Tribe of the East.

“Aye,” responded one of the men cautiously. “I heard there was rain from the sky and flowers in the sand.”

“And that, what you heard, was the truth.” The recitation now finished, the men were faced with the choice of what to do. The tribes did not fight amongst themselves. Negotiation was their main method of dealing with internal conflict. But they were also unaccustomed to seeing a lone nomad with no companion, even if they were sending messages. Customarily, there would be at least four travelers, two for the message and two for the muscle. The men were understandably at a loss.

“Brothers,” Archer said. “I have become separated from my tribe. We were attacked by roving mercenaries and many were driven toward the mountains. I am on my way to a pre-determined meeting place, but I am weary. May I rest with you until morning, perhaps enter the city among you to replenish my supplies? I will compensate you for your troubles, of course.”

The men eyed each other skeptically, their hands still resting on the hilt of their swords. One, a boy of perhaps thrity-five with sandy hair, said, “I shall have to ask the trailmaster. You will wait here.”

Archer nodded, and the youth took off like a shot between the row of tents lined up along the outer wall next to the large pit dug around the city. Archer snapped his fingers and clapped his hands together rhythmically, bouncing on his heels, hoping against hope that his bag remained silent.

“Pretty evening, eh?” He said to the two who remained with him. They stared at him in silence.

“Not much for small talk, are you, fellas?” He said when they didn’t answer. “I don’t blame you. Far too much of it these days. Folks talkin’ too much with nothing to say. S’what’s wrong with the world.”

The stony silence resumed. Archer smiled at his wary companions in a way that might have looked insane, but he hoped not. He’d grown unaccustomed to the action, so he wasn’t sure.

Before long, the sandy-haired boy returned. “Trailmaster say you may stay with us one day, but you must pay him 200 lyre.”

The smile on Archer’s face may have faltered a little at that, but he tried to keep it on straight. That was bloody extortion! Highway robbery! But Archer did not say this aloud. He merely plastered the grin on tighter, cricked his neck, and said, “For my brothers, I could spare any riches I possessed.”

The three men settled back around the fire, and Archer took a seat away from them, leaning on his satchel, and pretended to sleep for the rest of the morning.

Before dawn broke, the camp became awake seemingly all at once.Tents were torn down almost instantaneously, carts were packed, animals were loaded, and people began to move. Archer stayed in the exact center of the caravan with carts on either side of him, wrapping a scarf around his head in an attempt to look like an old grizzled man, trying not to attract attention, and smiled as the guards look past him.

* * *

 

It was a quiet evening in a dark, out-of-the-way bar in the heart of the Ardenthos City’s lower, poorer ring; a place called Weft’s. The silence of the dark and dingy tavern was punctuated with a couple of slurred conversations and on a few occasions, a shout of drunken laughter. The dim lights of the bar lamps were the only illumination. It was a warm night and no fire had been lit; the dirty stone hearth looked cold despite the heat. There were only a few people in the bar at this hour, but all of them were drunk; either attempting to start a fight or already passed out and were a heartbeat away from being turned out to sleep it off in the gutters outside. The only person who was not falling sideways out of his chair watched the door intently as though he expected it would explode at any second.

This person sat alone in the dimmest corner of the room, a position where he could see the door, the bar, and all the happenings therein without being in the way. He pulled a long, thin pipe from his worn, darkly colored traveling cloak and poured a measure of powder into it. He struck a match on the sole of his bear-hide boots and puffed expectantly. The tiny flame radiated a glow into his grey eyes, threatening and silent. His graying hair was pulled out of his face into a short braid down his back, which brought the worry lines that branched away from the corners of his eyes and mouth into greater relief. His scowl had carved a permanent frown into his cheeks.

After about an hour of waiting, a man dragging a canvas sack behind him entered the bar, ordered three bottles of gin, and scanned the room. He spotted the older man without difficulty, hiding in the shadows and was, at this point, pretending to sleep; eyes closed, head on his chest, and pipe dangling dangerously from his lips. The new arrival was extremely dirty from his head to his toe, and he had a smell permeating from him that was reminiscent of rotting potatoes. It was impossible to tell what color his clothes were; they could have been green or blue or brown or grey, but it was too hard to tell as they were as caked in dirt as his skin was. He was long-limbed and gangly. His hazel eyes, the color of pondwater, set deep in his lean, dusty face seemed to glow in the dimness of the bar, like a spark of green driftwood fire in the darkness. His medium-dark brown hair might have been curly if it weren’t so dirty. It would have been easy to mistake the stranger for a goblin or some sort of demon in this light, which was undoubtedly the point, though the man in the chair was gifted with better perception that most. The tip of his left ear was mangled, clipped off in a precise fashion that spoke to his character. It said immediately to any person who saw him: _don’t trust me, I’m a liar. I’m a thief. I’m a traitor. I get people killed._

The old man waited until he felt the one ordering gin find him with his eyes. The small frown that creased his brow was the only recognition he showed outwardly, though he kept his own eyes closed. The man at the bar grabbed the gin the barkeep handed him, put one in the leather satchel slung across his shoulders, and walked the other two to the table the old man occupied, dragging the canvas sack loudly behind him. He swung a chair around backwards and sat astride it.

“Well, well,” The young man said as he settled himself in a seat beside the seemingly sleeping man, uncorking one of the bottles with his teeth. “Whatever possessed you to pick this shithole?”

The old man clucked, eyes still closed. “I see you still have no respect for your elders. I figured two years on the run would have done a little more to tame your tongue.”

“Well, you thought wrong, then, didn’t you?” He took many long draws from the bottle before speaking again. “Besides, I have plenty of respect for my elders, just not you.”

“You’re still as insolent as the day you left, aren’t you?” The old male retorted. “Though, you always were, weren’t you? No proper pride in your place.”

“My place?”

“Aye, your place,” The old male said gruffly, thumping his feet on the ground and opening his eyes at last, only to glare across the table at the dirty stranger. “You ought to remember what you were raised to do and take pride in that.”

Archer snorted derisively. “What pride is there in cowering behind the coats of noblemen and doing their biding, even if it means killing people who can’t fight back?” Archer barked a mirthless laugh. “Besides, I thought we were going to be civil. If we can’t, I could just cut out your tongue and be on my way. I still have a decently quick blade, for all my time alone.”

A snort of derisiveness sounded from the shadow in front of Archer. “You’re the last person who should preach at me about innocent lives. Who, pray tell, taught you how to use that blade of yours?”  

“Not you, and that’s a fact.”

“Perhaps so, but I still have more talent and experience in my shortest nose-hair than you have in your entire being, and that’s also a fact.”

Archer shook his head with another snort. “You keep telling yourself that.”

The old male shook his head. “You never understood, did you? That’s your worst problem. Always was. Think you’re too good for our work. That’s the biggest reason why you got thrown out, Thamus.”

“Don’t call me that,” Archer said in a rough whisper. “At least show me that much respect and leave my previous life out of this.”

“Respect what?” The old male shot back at him. “You’re the one who threw away the name Suria gave you.”

“Shh!” Archer made a violent movement with his arm and knocked the old man’s drink to the floor. “Do not talk about her to me. I was not the one who killed her. That was your doing. _Father._ ” He said the last word as though he were spitting poison from his mouth.

The old male flinched. “I had nothing to do with the demise of Suria. It was heartbreak over you that killed her.”

Archer, after a moment of huffy silence, sat back in his chair and said nothing, for he knew he was probably right. His mother had always been of frail health since his birth, but it was his leaving that had harmed her more than anything. He had always been the one who took care of her, as his father was always too preoccupied with his own problems, never bothering himself with his wife’s illnesses, which left only Archer to care for her, but there was no other choice. He could not stay, and she knew that. She didn’t stop him from leaving, but he knew she wanted him to stay, for her. But he could not. There would be no staying after what he had done.

“I’m not here to talk about Mother,” Archer said in a voice so strained it cracked. “I came to get my share. Who are we supposed to be meeting?”

“He’s here. He’s the elf behind the bar.”

Archer looked back at the male he’d ordered the gin from, and until that moment, he had not realized the barkeep was watching the pair of them, wiping the same glass over and over. Archer knew fatigue was dulling him, but he was angry with himself for not noticing the barkeep’s watch on them all the same.

The old man stood, and, gesturing at Archer, walked toward the bar. Archer put the other bottle of gin in his satchel, drained the one he had been drinking, and followed his father over to the barkeep, where they were involved in a low, intense conversation. The barkeep looked up as Archer approached.

“This him?” The barkeep asked.

“Yes, this will be him,” The older male said.

The barkeep looked Archer up and down. “Don’t look a thing like ya, Kitr.”

“Yes, well, thank heavens for the little miracles,” Archer said in a waspish whisper. “Are we going to do this or not? I’ve got little time to be messing around in this hole.”

The barkeep shook his head. “Kids.”

Archer narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. His father spoke up.

“Well, he’s right, Kan, we’ve both got other places to be,” Kitr said.

Kan threw down his cloth and motion for them to follow him behind the bar. They did as they were bid and came to a small side room, where there were but a few crates and a small scrubbed table.

“Now,” Said Kan, sitting on the nearest crate. “Where is it?”

Archer sat on the crate opposite him and pulled the canvas sack in front of him and opened the top. Reaching down, his hand closed around a neck. With a gentle tug, he pulled it out. Kan gasped.

A small, scaled creature struggled meekly against Archers grasp. It was a small, pearly, iridescently pink and green lizard, with faceted, milky white eyes, tiny, insect-like, dual sets of wings, and a long snout with razor sharp teeth which had been tied shut with twine.

It was common knowledge that the blood of a fairy dragon could cure and heal anything. Any cut, any wound, any illness or disease. There was even a rumor that bathing the dead in enough of it could resurrect them. So common was this rumor, in fact, that they had been hunted near to extinction. The new law made it illegal for any person to hunt, trap, kill, or otherwise harm a fairy dragon. It also meant that the price for fairy dragon blood was astronomical. It could cost as much as three thousand lyre for an ounce.

Archer pulled two more out of the sack and laid them, struggling against their bonds, on the table.

“Now, where’s my cut?”

Kan looked the three dragons over and, determining that they were in good health, if a little roughed-up, he reached behind him in to a trick floorboard and pulled out a large cloth bag, and heaved it at Archer. “Count it if you must.”

“No need,” Archer said, stowing the bag of his money in his satchel, pleased by the clinking sound the coins made. Having the money after so long and such trouble was nice, but it was not what he was after. Reaching deeper into his satchel, he pulled out a tiny glass vial. “Now give me the rest I’m owed.” He held out the vial to Kan.

Kan exchanged a look with Kitr, and did not take the vial. “We was talking ‘bout that.”

Archer pulled his hand back slowly and sat rigidly in his chair, his eyes narrowed at the pair of them. “Oh, were you, now?”

“We was wondering why you would have need of it.” Kan said, a little meekly, quelling slightly under the stare Archer fixed upon him. His father, on the other hand, squared his shoulders and fixed Archer with a piercing stare of his own. He spoke with a clearer tone of voice.

“You have no injury or illness, so it’s obvious this is not for you, unless you plan on becoming seriously wounded or ill. Which, I gather, is unlikely. Although, considering your current line of work, it wouldn’t be surprising, but even you don’t possess this degree of forethought.” Kitr cleared his throat and continued firmly. “I’m concerned that you are taking rumors too seriously.”

“And what does it matter to you if I do?”

“It matters to me if you are intending to resurrect your mother.”

Archer paused, mostly for effect, but partially out of surprise. His father was mistaken, of course, but Archer never expected him to possess such a sentimental imagination. Archer declined to elaborate on why he really need it, but let his father labor under this uncharacteristically soft-hearted notion. Still, it was an intriguing notion, and he wondered why he _hadn‘t_ considered it before. Perhaps he did lack forethought.

“Whatever gave you such an idiotic idea?”

“Could it be the fact that you have been seen in the Valley four months ago?” Kitr said forcefully.

“Now it’s a crime to go and talk to my Mother?” In truth, the first, and only, trip Archer had made to Bird Country, where his mother rested, was less in solemn visitation and was more of a gesture of farewell.

“You know for a fact you’ve never once been interested in going to Suria’s Grave!”

“What I know,” said Archer in a threateningly low growl, “Is that I am owed something. I took this job for far less than I should have, and I was promised. If you’ll not give it, then I’ll give back the money and keep all of it for my own. I could fetch a far better price almost everywhere else.”

Kan looked as though he had not thought of this, and cast a furtive look at Kitr. Kitr sighed, knowing he could not stop Archer.  He held out his hand for the vial. Kan grabbed the nearest dragon and pulled it to him. Taking a large dagger from his belt, he chopped roughly at the creature’s neck. The beast squealed and croaked, then gurgled and was silent. Once the head had been severed, he pulled a bowl from under the table and squeezed until the dragon was drained of all its pearly white blood, then threw its twitching body into the canvas bag. Then, using a spoon, he ladled the spoonfuls into the vial. He handed the vial back to Archer, who studied it carefully. It was about two ounces, more than enough.

“Good,” Archer said, stowing the vial, not in his satchel, but in a small pouch around his neck. “I’ll be going now.”

He was out of the door before either elf could stop him, though he did hear a dry snort follow behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Archer had found a dry alley in which to sleep the day away, and was up and about before twilight fell. I could have rented a room at an inn and been infinitely more comfortable, but he knew better than most that extra money would come in handy in a pinch, and that he should probably save as much as he possibly could for the coming journey.

Back out on the street, Archer kept his head down and walked straight for his favorite dive on the other side of town. Hammon’s was always opened late, and his wife could cook better than any person Archer knew. Hammon was one of the few beings Archer could count as a friend. He had hid Archer once during the time Arden had put a price on his head, and found a way for him to escape the city without the guards realizing. He hadn’t seen him in almost a year and hoped he hadn’t gotten into any trouble on his account.

Walking these streets in the dark was familiar, even comforting, to him. Despite his distaste for the place, and his knowledge that he was still a wanted man in these parts, he felt as though he were stumbling home after a long day; though, he reminded himself with a grimace, he had never done an honest man’s work. He didn’t pay much attention to where he was going. His feet just seemed to know the way. He kept his eyes on the road, glancing up occasionally when he caught a swatch of red in his peripheral vision that could have been the cape of a guard, though it never was. You’d be hard pressed to find a guard this far from the upper rings.

Hammon’s tavern was a small, out-of-the-way place, much like Weft’s, but that was where the similarities ended. Hammon’s was warmer, more inviting, less rambunctious, and the door was always open to hungry strangers. Archer often felt that Hammon trusted too easily, but if it were not for that fact, they probably wouldn’t be as friendly as they were. Hammon was probably the only elf Archer held in high regard. His wife, Rin, was as pleasant as elvish females came, though she was less trusting of Archer than Hammon was. Archer didn’t blame her and certainly didn’t hold it against her. _I’d be suspicious of me if I were her_ , he thought grimly.

The lights inside were still on, though it was quiet. He rapped sharply on the wooden door three times and waited. The door opened up cautiously. A girl of perhaps twenty six, not quite full-grown yet, answered the door. Her eyes were large, brown and dull. Her fair-colored hair was escaping the tight braid that trailed down her back.

“Yes?” She said in a voice just higher than a whisper.

“I’m here to see Hammon. Could you tell him that I’m here? My name is Archer.” He told her.

She fixed him with a puzzled expression. “Uncle Hammon no longer lives here.”

He frowned. “Why not? Where did he go?”

She bit her lip, hesitating, and he knew it was not good news. “They took Uncle Hammon and his wife away ten months ago for questioning. They have not been back since.”

Alarmed, Archer forced open the door and strode inside, knocking the girl out of his path inadvertently in his haste. Indeed, the inside of the tavern had been completely converted into a homestead, and all of the familiarity Archer had looked forward to was disappointingly, almost despairingly, absent. The girl gasped and fell backward against the wall, but did nothing to stop him. She watched him as he rummaged through the house, banging on the floor with his boot, looking intently for something.

“Do you know where they went?” He asked the girl without looking at her, still searching frantically around the house.

“Only that the authority took them away for questioning in the escape of a murderer. I don’t know where they went after that.”  

 _I have a guess_ , Archer thought to himself with a twitch of guilt and unease. “So who are you? Why are you living in their house?”

“My father and Hammon are step-brothers. He took over this house when he and Ms. Rin disappeared.”  

 _Took over. More like stole._ Archer grunted in response, still searching. Then, at last, Archer found it; a hollow sound, a ring of iron painted brown jutting just out of sight. He grasped it and heaved. The girl shrieked as a table that had been sitting on the edge of the opening flew through the air and hit the opposite wall, splintering into several large, jagged pieces. Without stopping to look around, he hurled himself down the flight of wooden steps that descended beyond the trapdoor. The room beyond was small and cramped, little more than a closet, big enough for only a medium-sized man to get into, for the room was full of shelves.

It took more than a minute for Archer to find what he was looking for; a small, spun-glass orb, completely empty, no bigger than a marble, sitting behind an old toy horse Hammon had had carved from wood when he learned his wife was expecting, though they lost the child sometime after. If Archer hadn’t known what the orb was, he would have assumed it wholly unremarkable. After inspecting it thoroughly to make sure it was still intact, he wrapped it with a length of soft fleece and placed it carefully in the stiff pouch around his neck with the vial of blood, tucking it safely beneath his shirt, and climbed back through the trapdoor.

Once he reached the top and closed the trapdoor, he looked around at the girl. She was cleaning up the shards of broken table, looking stricken. She glanced up when he resurfaced with an angry look on her face. It was an improvement over the vacant expression she had worn upon his entering the house. “Who do you suppose will fix this, then?” She said, futilely attempting to reassemble the broken table. “Do you know what my father with do when he finds this mess?”

He looked around at said mess and frowned, turning back to the girl. “What’s your name?”

She looked, if possible, even angrier at this question. “Catha, though it’s none of your business, is it?” She replied.

“Where’s your father?”

“Away, helping a friend. Why?”

He motioned at the trapdoor. “Did you or he know of this before tonight?”

She shook her head.

“Good. The things below this room do not belong to you or your father. It would be best if he never knew I was here and you never told him what went on.” He opened his satchel, found the bag of money, and grabbed a handful. He counted out ten gold coins and threw them at her feet. “This is for your table.” As an afterthought, he threw down the rest that he had in his hand. “This is for your silence. Understand?”

She nodded again, though this time, she stared at the money on the floor, any fear or anger replaced by amazed bewilderment.  Annoyed, he turned.

“Good.”

He crossed the room in three strides, opened the door and, with a last look at the girl, who was still staring at the coins on the floor and took no more notice of him, was about to walk out of the door, when he heard her say, “Are you hungry?"

Assuming this was a ply to illicit more money from him, he almost didn’t answer, but his stomach decided this was the time to remind him in a rather painful way they he had not eaten in nearly three days. He turned back and addressed the girl.

“Can you cook?”

At this, she snorted and she nodded in a noncommittal type of way.

“Well,” He replied. “I wouldn’t mind something quick.” He paused at her expression. “I’ll pay,” He added.

She fixed him with a mildly assessing gaze. “You wouldn’t happen to be the criminal that my uncle was accused of helping, are you?”

Maybe she wasn’t as stupid as he assumed. “What if I said I was?”

“What if I were to call a guard?” She said. Despite the threat, she was now up off the floor and busying herself with the fire.

“Well, I’d remind you that the crime I was accused of was murder,” He said, settling himself in a chair opposite her.

He large brows arched. “Oh?” She put a large pot full of water onto the fire and began throwing dried meats and bits of cheese and vegetables into it a little haphazardly. “I’d then ask you if you were guilty.”

He paused, staring at her. “What if I were to say that I was?”

She slowed, turning to face him. “You don’t strike me as a murderer.”

“True murderers rarely do.”

“You smell more like a homeless drunk,” She replied.

“I am a homeless drunk.”

She stood with her arms folded in front of her, glaring at him in a calculating way. “Are you really a killer?”

He threw his hands wide with a small smile. “I am.”

She took in his appearance and sniffed. “I don’t believe you.” She turned back to the fire and stroked it, bringing the pot to a boil.

“Oh?” He asked, amused. “Why is that?”

“Well, for one, you look more like a vagrant or a thief than a murderer, and if you really are a killer, you’d have killed me before finding that trapdoor so that I could tell no one of its existence.”

“Aye, that could be so,” he said thoughtfully. “Or, maybe it’s because I want something of you and I’ve not yet taken it.”

She froze over the fire. “And what’s that?” She asked.

He laughed inwardly. Making her uncomfortable was certainly entertaining. “My meal.”

She released a breath. “Of course.”

He laughed openly at her, slapping his knee, causing her to turn in alarm. “You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you. I’m not as dangerous as everyone would have you think.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “You did break into my house.”

“I didn’t really _break in_ ,” He said defensively. “You didn’t exactly try to stop me.”

“Well, you did scare me out of my wits. It is awfully late for visitors, and you didn’t look the respectable sort.”

At this, he scoffed. “Oh? And what exactly qualifies as ‘respectable’?”

“Well, you could use wash, at least.”

“What good would that do me? I’ll just get dirty again. Takes a while to get a good layer of filth going, you know,” He said, handing back the empty bowl. She took it and refilled it.

“You might smell a little better,” She said, grimacing.

“I like my smell,” He said with a grin. “Let’s people know I’m coming.”

She snorted in response. “That’s certainly true,” She laughed. “Though that might not be such a good idea if you’re on the run,” She said shrewdly.

Thy sat in silence for a time with the makeshift stew cooked, and Archer considered things. After a time, she walked over and shoved a large, roughly hewn wooden bowl in his hand. The stew inside it looked less than appetizing, but it was hot and he was hungry and not about to complain. He brought it to his mouth and swallowed half of it in one gulp. He handed the bowl back and she filled it again.

“You may be right,” he said after his fourth bowl. “Still, I’ve got my methods.” He stood up and laid another two coins on the arm of the chair. “Well, don’t think I’m not appreciative or anything, but I really must be on my way.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait.”

He looked back. She was staring at him with an odd expression, as if she were having trouble deciding something.

“What do you want? I’m in a hurry,” He said.

“You weren’t in that great a hurry when you were tearing my home apart and then forced me to make you dinner,” She answered.

“I didn’t _force_ you do anything. And anyway, I paid for that, didn’t I?” He retorted.  

She huffed.

He crossed his arms impatiently. “Look, is this important? I really do need to get going.”

She considered him moment, still struggling with herself internally. “You don’t have a sword,” She said bluntly after a minute.

He frowned. “What makes you think I need one?”

She shrugged. “You seem the type.”

He looked down at his waist and held up his hands. “No, I don’t have one, but I did once,” he said, looking back at her. “Stolen a year ago, while I was sleeping. Right from under my nose. I also broke my bow, so I can’t do that, neither. Some killer I am, huh?”

She stared at him some more, then turned and headed into the next room. Thinking she had dismissed him, he turned and opened the door, but before he could step out, she had returned, carrying a long, thin package wrapped in leather.

“Take this.” She held it out to him. “It was my grandfather’s. My father has plenty of good blades and I have no use for it.”

He untied the twine wrapped around the leather and let it all fall to the ground. There, held in his hand was a gleaming sword, perfect length for his body, not too heavy, and with a slight curve at its tip. The sheath was engraved with many long lines of tiny symbols he had never seen before running horizontally all the way down to the end. It looked rare and splendid, as swords go. It was likely the girl didn’t know what she was giving away, and would be in a heap of trouble if her father returned and it was gone.

As if reading his mind, she said, “My grandfather left it to me when he died. He was a poor elf and it was all he could give me at the time of his death. It is mine to give to whom I wish. My father wants me to keep it until I marry, and give it to my husband as a dowry, but I’m tired of it. It’s ugly and wish to get rid of it as soon as I can. My father has no say in this matter.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Is this to get more of my money? I’ve given you quite a bit already.”

She shook her head. “I do want payment, but I do not want your money.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? And, what, pray tell, would you have in return?”

She stared at him steadily. “I want a kiss.”

He barked more than laughed, fixing her with an incredulous look. “Are you serious?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t laugh at me.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “This is some sort of joke, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

He looked into her face. Indeed, she did not, but he could not believe that was what she wanted, and he felt as though he might be getting suckered into something. The laughter died on his lips.

“I’m not going to sleep with you, if that’s what you want,” He said. “The last thing I need is angry fathers on my ass."

She scoffed. “Like I would have you. An drunken, criminal vagrant and a killer on top of that? What girl needs that kind of bother? No, just the one kiss, and you can have the sword. As I said, I don’t want it.”

He stayed where he was. “Why?”

She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “I was thinking maybe you hadn’t had one in a while.”

He grimaced, a little bit offended. Tossing the sword onto the nearest chair, he turned again to leave.

“Stop!” She called. He halted with his hand on the door, but did not turn to look at her.

“Listen,” She said. “The truth is, I have been betrothed to a man I do not care for. He’s not unkind, it’s just I don’t feel anything for him. He’s old, and unattractive, and set in his ways. I just wanted a kiss from a handsome man once before my marriage.”

She seemed sincere, but Archer wasn’t sure. “Handsome? A minute ago I was a drunken, criminal vagrant.” Still, the sword lay gleaming where he had thrown it and he realized it was probably extremely valuable. A kiss wasn’t such a high price to pay. Besides, she was even kind of good-looking for an elf-woman, with her wide brown eyes, slender build, and round face. It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d ever done, by far.

Still not totally convinced this wasn’t some sort of a trap, he closed the door, turned to face her and walked over to where she stood, straight-backed but a little awkward. He reached out and took her waist in both hands. Bending down, he pressed his dirty, wind-chapped lips to her full, soft ones. He didn’t feel any sort of sensations, but lingered there, enjoying the moment as long as he could. It was true he had not been with a woman, or even close to one, in a long time. They parted and he, in an uncharacteristically chivalrous manner, drew back several paces, letting go of her waist.

“Was that what you wanted?” He asked with a weary sigh, eyebrow raised.

Her eyes were still closed and she did not answer. Slowly, she looked at him, and her face split into a wide smile.

“You’re a weird one.”

He laughed. “Yes, that’s true, but in what way?”

She shrugged. “Most men would have made some joke about wanting to do more than kiss. Some might even have made a move.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Is that what you wanted me to do?”

“Well, no, but I’m just saying, most men would.”

The smile left his face as he grunted, “I’m not most men.”

She looked him up and down, sizing him up. “No, I guess you aren’t, are you?’ She laughed. “You are strange, but you’ve paid sufficiently,” She said, picking the sword back up and putting it in his hands again. “I hope this serves you well.”

“I’m sure it will.” He walked for the final time to the door and held it open. Turning back, he said, “I wish you luck and happiness in your marriage.”

Her smile faded and her eyes dulled once more, but she said, in a mechanical, automatic sort of way, “Thank you.”

He turned, and walked out into the night.

Archer had come to the decision before he had even sat down to eat in Catha’s home that he could not, in good conscience, leave the city without finding out what happened to Hammon and Rin. The best place to ask would be near Arden’s castle in the center of the city. This was both good and bad news. All the good business was up town, but so were most of the guards, and every one of them knew him, and not in a friendly way.

The moon rose slowly over the stout buildings as he set back out onto the main road that lead up to the castle. It would take the better part of the evening to reach uptown. Even though he had slept most of the day, the news of Hammon and Rin’s capture had both instantly fatigued and deeply motivated him. Tired though he was, he was fueled by the worry and guilt he now had gnawing at his insides. Hammon and Rin had been taken because of him. If they had been killed, it was his fault. Entirely his fault. Guilt did not look good on him, he thought.

He needed a drink. He pulled out one of the bottles of gin and began drinking as he walked. The sword he had fixed to his worn belt clanked against the other bottle in his satchel. He looked more suspicious wearing a sword, but he refrained from telling Catha that. At least he’d be able to protect himself a little better than before. He only had one thought in his head that was any comfort at all: the fact that he knew Arden was rarely, if ever, in the city. He preferred to rule from afar, which may have contributed to the sorry state of destitution in which the city was rapidly falling; though, to be truthful, he highly doubted Arden’s presence within the city would have much of a positive effect.

Arden was little concerned with the troubles and plight of his subjects, and more involved with his own luxury. The people in the poorer lower ring either broke their backs, scrounged, or stole for a living, and had little means to do much else as taxes rose higher every year to feed Arden’s insatiable appetite for lavish comforts. The ever-increased taxing placed a harsh strain on the people, and created an acute dissatisfaction with the patrons throughout the city. That may have been the exact reason why Arden rarely visited and never lingered long; the fear of being confronted with an uprising of displeased, stressed inhabitants.

The only people who did well in the city were the guards in Arden’s employ; very eager young men who wanted to work little, get paid quick, and cause as much mayhem as possible. Though their main job was keeping the peace, they were much keener on creating problems for the honest, hard-working residents of the middle and lower rings. The only upside, if you could call this an upside, is that it wasn’t hard to find a guard corrupt enough from which to buy information.

The best lead he had so far is that they were taken to the Court of Inquiry, which was little more than a dungeon disguised as a courthouse. The trials held there were a sham, because anyone who walked through those doors were immediately judged guilty, whether or not they actually were. Anyone taken there never made it out again; no one ever escaped or was turned loose. Archer had often heard old drunken men in several bars across the city spin tall tales late into the night about daring escapes and heroic rescues from the Court of Inquiry, but anyone with half a brain knew better than to turn these claims a serious ear. Nobody ever got rescued, and people foolish enough to attempt a rescuing never came back either. The only time one would ever see someone that had been dragged off again was during their public execution, which happened with disturbing frequency. Archer remembered, with a cold knot of anger in the pit of his stomach, the day a thirteen year old boy had been hung in the square for theft. Afterward, no later than that afternoon, half the city, especially families with children, packed up their belongings, vacated their houses, and left the city in droves.

The closer he got to the central tower, the place that would have housed Arden if he actually stayed in the city, the houses along the main street became larger and grander; their inhabitants sat on their vast front porches, smoking tobacco before bed. Although their circumstances were, on the whole, a great deal better than of the people in the lower rings, there was still signs of the stress the taxes had pressed upon them. A good indication was the lack of curtains or cloth on many of the windows, likely as not, torn down and the fabric sold. Many gardens had an overgrown, wild look to them, as though no one had been hired to tend them in some time. Though Archer had little pity for these people, it was suddenly interesting to him to think how many of these people called Arden a useless lout when his back was turned, and cooed and coddled him to his face.

He got a lot of queer looks as he passed the houses on the main street, though he paid little attention to it. He realized long ago, about the last time he’d had a bath, actually, that he was going to either be completely invisible or attract a lot of attention, and he ought to dress, or not dress, the part. He was used to people staring at his disgustingness now to care, though he was sure he thought he heard the sounds of locks clicking as he passed each house. He smiled to himself at this, though. If the sight of him alone was enough to drive these people indoors, they were in for a rude awakening. The crime rate was reduced in the middle ring than that of the upper or lower rings for two simple reasons, the first being that petty thieves thought it a better idea to go after the wealthier residents in the upper rings, and second, it was getting to the point where even the rich had little of value anymore. There were also a few more guards in this area than in the lower levels, not nearly as many as in the wealthier neighborhoods, but enough to stop trouble. Or start it, whichever. Guards patrolled the streets in pairs, stopping anyone suspicious looking or people out past curfew, and promptly taking their wallets. The “tariff” for protecting their safety, they’d say.

He turned off the main street, which was well lit by gas-lamps until three hours after twilight, the street curfew, and slipped into the very dark back alleys that snaked around the houses and garden walls. The alleyway was the best option for avoiding guard-posts and the wary eyes of the mid-level inhabitants. The back alleys were a maze of high, high brick walls around the houses insulated against sound with dozens of different types of bushes, trees, and shrubberies that now grew wild all over the place. It was easy to get lost in if you didn’t know your way around, and was a perfect place to hide. It was also dangerous to stay too long in it for that fact exactly. The only reason to find a guard here would be to smoke a pipe, take a piss, or bring a woman somewhere dark to… well, one would get the idea. Archer hoped he’d find one in an uncomfortable position that he could use to his advantage.

Not too far down, he had that very opportunity. There, sitting cross-legged against a pole, a guard sat clutching his spear, helmet on crooked, fast asleep and snoring loudly. Archer would have laughed at the sight if he thought it wouldn’t wake the elf up and spoil Archer’s nice little ambush. Pulling a smallish dagger out of his satchel, he moved noiselessly toward the slumbering hulk of flesh and pointed his blade at his throat, lifting the spear gently out of his grasp.

“Oy. Wake up, you,” Archer mumbled. The eyes of the boy snapped open and he gasped, pitching forward after the support of his spear was pulled away, and attempted to right himself.

“Ach,” Archer warned, the tip of the blade piercing the flesh of the guard’s neck. “Blink the wrong way and I spill your brain water on the ground.” He grabbed the guard by his hair and pulled him forward onto the grass, so that his folded legs wound up underneath him and his back end stuck up in the air. “I need some information, and I’ll be willing to pay you handsomely for it. If I pay, I want some guarantee that I’ll get out of this here alleyway with my skin. Otherwise, you won’t. Are we clear one this?”

The guard nodded and gave a muffled sort of objection.

Archer leaned his ear in. “What was that, now?”

The guard twisted his head around so that he could better articulate. “I want to see the money, so I know you’re not jerking me around.”

Archer nodded. “Fair enough.”

Not taking his hand off the back of the guard’s neck, still pinning him fast to the ground, Archer pulled out his coin pouch, which was still relatively full from when he’d received it the night before. There was probably more than ten thousand lyre inside it, which was more than this guard, though he was well-paid, could make in two years. The guards wide eyes were enough to tell Archer he’d found a willing participant.

“Now,” Archer continued in a pleasant tone of voice, stowing his bag of money back in his satchel for safe-keeping. “Here’s the deal: For every valuable piece of information you give me, you get one hundred lyre. For every line of shit you feed me, I cut off an appendage.” Archer allowed his knife to brush across the man’s skin. “Are we in agreement?”

The guard nodded again as best he could with his face pressed into the dirt. With one hand still pressing the neck of the guard in the ground, Archer reached into his bag and pulled out a thick horsehair rope. He tied the guard’s hands together, and then wrapped a length of the rope around the guard’s arms above his elbows, so that his shoulder blades touched. When he was sure his arms were bound tight, Archer reached down and tied the laces of the guard’s boots around both feet and wound them into a severe knot. He grabbed the scruff of the guard’s neck and pulled him into a semi-sitting position against the brick of the wall. He was young, probably in his early thirties, with scraggly straw colored hair and a thin, scrawny, strappy body. His dull, gray eyes said very clearly that he was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“So,” Archer sighed, crouching next to the male, who was currently trying to find a comfortable position to sit in with his arms pulled taut behind him. “We might get through this more pleasantly if we knew a little more about each other. I’ll start-“

“I already know who you are,” The guard interjected. “You’re that renegade archer. All the guards are briefed about you. We’re supposed to kill you on sight.”

Archer sniffed and grimaced. “Well, what a comforting notion. So, since you know so much about me, what’s your story?”

The guard just stared in confusion. “Your name, boy. What’s your name?”

This was an old trick he’d learned as an interrogator during his brief time in his coven’s military; get the prisoner talking to discover his tells; little changes in behavior that would indicate the truth or a lie. Some tells are easy: excessive sweating, constant blinking, twitching or fidgeting. Some aren’t so easy. He once interrogated a man who didn’t show any normal signs of lying, except when he would say something Archer knew was false, his left pupil would dilate slightly. Archer only had to look for that sign as evidence of dishonesty. The interrogation went a lot smoother after that.  

“Oh. Luth.” No hesitation. No blinking. _True._

“How old are you?”

“Forty-seven.”

 _Lie._ Elves weren’t considered adults until they reached about forty, but Arden’s forces often took younger boys due to lack of able-bodied _volunteers_ remaining within the district.

“Hmm.” Archer sighed. “So, Luth, why is a fine, upstanding youth such as yourself working for a sniveling worm like Arden?”

Luth seemed to be confused at being referred to as a _fine, upstanding youth_ , but recovered quickly. “My folks got me this job.”

_True._

“I see. Well, seeing as we’re better acquainted, I feel confident you’ll answer my questions.” He reached behind him into his satchel and pulled out a handful of coins. He counted out ten gold coins, one hundred lyre, and threw them in Luth’s lap. “Now, first, I want to know about the Court of Inquiry.”

Luth snorted. “I can’t tell you anything about that. I’ll get fired.”

Archer, who still had his dagger out, positioned it over the young guard’s left thumb from behind. He pressed the cool blade gently to the skin of the finger so that the boy could feel it. “Which would you rather lose, you job or your fingers?”

Luth’s eyes widened, but he stayed composed. “You wouldn’t. You’re just bluffing.”

Archer cocked his head. “What was it I was accused of, again?”

As he said this, he let the blade bite into the young man’s flesh, a thin slash of red where the blade sat. Luth hissed and grimaced, jerking around to look behind him, but there was no way he could get his hands into his line of vision, so he could only take the new burning cut he felt on his thumb for proof that Archer wasn’t bluffing. His browed furrowed and he frowned.

“Why’d you have to pick _me_ for this?” He whined in exasperation.

“’Cause you were the only one stupid enough to fall asleep on shift,” Archer replied levelly. “Now, are you gonna earn those hundred lyre or are you gonna lose a thumb?”

Scowling, Luth responded. “You gotta understand, I don’t know everything about the Court. I don’t work there. Most of us don’t. We only hear what the boys who do work there talk about at the pub.” Though Luth held his eye, Archer could see his hand twitching. It may have not been a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

“Duly noted,” Archer said, squaring himself. “What happens to a prisoner when they come into the Court?”

“Best as I was told, they’re processed.”

“What does that mean, _processed_?” Luth shifted. He eyed Archer’s hand, where there were still coins clutched in his palm. Archer began counting out another handful of coins and threw them in the boy’s lap.

“Processing involves preparing the prisoner for labor,” Luth stated promptly. “It starts with an initial interrogation, and then prisoners are stripped, searched, cleaned, and prepared for transport. Their properties are seized and sold.”

Archer threw another ten down. “Transported to where?”

“I don’t know,” Luth said.

Another half-truth. Coins jingled. “How long are they kept in the Court before transported somewhere else?”

“Less than a few weeks, long enough to be properly questioned.” Truth.

 _Damn_ , thought Archer, _they’ve already been taken off. How will I find them now?_

“Do you have any idea where the prisoners might be sent after processing?”

“No.”

 _A-ha!_ Lie.

“Prepare to lose a finger, Luth.” Archer didn’t actually plan on cutting off his finger. Keeping the boy whole would earn him less time in jail if he got caught, though Archer prudently ignored the fact that if he was caught, it was more than likely he’d never be let out again anyway. Alive, that is. Besides, a professional was above a lowly maiming. Psychological torture worked better. _Waste not_ , after all. Archer used the tip of his dagger to bite into the base of Luth’s thumb, in such a way that it would touch the bone. It would feel like the thumb was being cut off without creating any actual damage to the tendons.

As he began to apply pressure and the blood leaked from his hand, Luth shouted, “No! I’m not lying. I don’t know where they take them!”

“You’re still lying, Luth.” Staying out of Luth’s line of vision, Archer removed the dagger, reached into his bag, and pulled out his half-drunk bottle of gin. Pulling off the cork with his teeth, he poured a small amount on the thumb, simultaneously protecting it from infection and creating a searing pain that more than likely felt as though the appendage was being sawed off with a blunt shaving razor.

“I’d start telling the truth if you want to keep your thumbs.”

“Alright!” Luth had started gasping, and Archer stopped.  Apparently, Luth had a low threshold for pain. All in Archer’s favor. “There are a few places, but I only know about one for certain.  One is in the west, called Port Len. It’s a sea quarry. They mine the coral to use for tools and jewelry. It’s one of Arden’s biggest exports. I went there once as a lad with my folks. I was surprised at how many people were there, and I didn’t get why. My parents told me later that it was a work regiment for prisoners to work off their debt to society.”

Archer furrowed his brow and blew his breath out hard through his nose. “I’ve heard of Port Len, but I never expected this. I guess that will be my first stop.” Archer stood, frowning. He knew it would take the better part of a month to reach Port Len, meaning he would have to leave immediately. It wouldn’t be his very first stop, though. He had decided his first order of business was to do something about the Court of Inquiry. He knew of a stash of explosive gel that could be used for just that purpose, but getting away from his current situation without getting caught was going to be the tricky thing. He already knew, just by looking in the eyes of this young _over-achiever_ that he would sound the alarm as soon as he had a free arm to blow his whistle, which would undoubtedly earn Archer a trip to the very place they had been discussing. Granted, if Archer left him tied up, it might be a while before he freed himself or anyone found him, but that was really good rope.

_Dilemmas._

With a hand on his gritty chin, he contemplated Luth, who was staring at Archer as innocently as he could. The only way to get out of this (and get his rope back) without the young guard sending others after him would be to kill him. Archer hadn’t killed anyone since the last war in which he had been involved (unless you counted political assassinations, which Archer didn’t. He saw it more like pest control). He didn’t like the taste of it. It was necessary, sometimes. Like hunting or cleaning fish, neither task he liked, either. Archer stood and stretched, then bent to collect his things. 

“Now, Luth,” He began. “I think this would be a good time to leave you. I’ve given you almost a two months salary, and I think you’ve earned it, for the most part.” He corked the gin bottle and clutched it by its neck. “So, farewell, and pleasant dreams.”

A look of puzzlement creased the boy’s brow momentarily, then, after a meaty _thunk_ , his face was cleared of all expression as he pitched face forward into the dirt. Grateful he didn’t break his bottle, Archer reached down, untied his rope and stowed it, and stalked through the back alley toward the lower ring. He knew that the money he’d given Luth for his information would probably be stolen by the time the youth woke up, and felt a little displeased at the thought. He had earned it, after all, even if the job wasn’t the regular sort. Then he thought of the number of people in the city like Hammon and Rin that he had probably marched into Court on a regular basis, and he brushed off that displeasure with ease.


End file.
